True Love at Silver Creek Ranch (13 page)

T
here wasn't a TV in the bunkhouse, but Adam didn't mind. He read until he fell asleep each night, which was usually pretty early. If he'd had a TV, he wouldn't have noticed when Brooke's Jeep crunched the hard snow outside, he wouldn't have gone to the curtain to catch a glimpse of her.

Her hair was long and wild tonight. He knew from a casual question to Josh that Black Friday shopping was a tradition, but it would hardly go so late at night. She'd gone somewhere else that evening—a date?

The shot of jealousy took him by surprise. He hardly needed to remind himself of the rules he'd agreed to where their nonrelationship was concerned. It seemed all of his emotions were coming back to life, welcome or not.

He went back to the fridge and pulled out the pie for a late-night snack. He'd stocked up on groceries. Although he wasn't the world's best cook—the Marines had fed him, after all—he'd learned a thing or two when he was still a kid, and his parents had been too drunk to care about feeding him. He made a mean omelet, and his spaghetti was always perfectly boiled.

But he had the pumpkin pie, and thought of Brooke, and what other parts of her body he should have decorated with whipped cream.

He was going to get himself all riled up at this rate.

And then he heard a scratching at the door. He wasn't proud of how quickly he jumped up, and this time it wasn't because of any military habit. Had Brooke decided she had to see him and didn't want to knock for fear it would carry across the pasture?

Adam opened the door wide, already feeling satisfied—but there was no one there. And then he looked down.

Ranger, the cow dog, was sitting on his haunches on the porch, looking up at him with a wide doggy grin. His ears went back, and he gave a little whine.

Sighing, Adam squatted and rubbed between his ears. “What's up, boy? You lonely?”

Ranger gave another whine and licked his face.

Adam sputtered. “Okay, okay, you can come in for a visit. Let's see how muddy you are, first.”

He used the barn towel on the dog, then Ranger happily trotted around the living room, smelling every corner, then lifting his nose to the edge of the table.

“Not my pumpkin pie,” Adam warned.

Ranger seemed to sigh, then, after a cursory inspection of the bedroom, curled up on the rug before the fire.

“I know the barn is warm enough for you,” Adam told the dog.

Ranger's tail thumped, but he didn't lift his head.

“Oh, all right, you can stay here for the night.”

But soon, Adam regretted his decision, because the dog took up more of the bed than he did.

T
he nightmare started like it always did, a typical patrol in-country, asspack, canteens, and six rounds of live ammo bouncing around his torso, his rifle in his hands like a part of his body. That rifle was so real, but everything else around him was a dreamy blur, a torn picture of Paul's girlfriend moving in and out of focus, Adam picking up an unusual stone for Zach's son.

Then artillery rounds landed too close, the impact like a belch of air from the earth, the explosion shaking the ground, sending rocks to slice flesh. Adam's voice sped up and slowed down as he called in fire support, but the enemy's position wasn't attacked. Instead, the bombs fell on them, screaming out of the sky from the jet long past them. The dead and dying were like bright blood on hunks of meat. Dragging his mangled leg, he felt the weight of Eric as he pulled him behind the shelter of rocks, but the man's face was already lifeless. The smell of smoke and death swirled around him, the heat of flames as hot as his damaged thigh.

And that was always where he woke up, his mind filled with regrets and recriminations and a desperate plea to God to turn back time so he could save them all. But the true nightmare was what he discovered later, that they'd dropped a 500-pound bomb rather than a 250, altering his calculations, and men had died.

He was breathing hard in the dark, and Ranger whined softly in confusion. Adam closed his eyes and put his hand on the dog's silky head.

He had to let them go, he told himself in sorrow, his friends, the men he'd watched war movies with before being deployed, drinking beer until they'd yelled Semper Fi like idiots. They were dead, and he was not. They'd want him to go on living his life, to forgive himself. But no one had ever told him it would be so hard without them.

Ranger gave a sad whine and leaned against his thigh in a companionship as old as time.

Chapter Eleven

T
he next morning, Brooke met up with Adam near the truck shed. The air was slightly warmer, the sky clear blue, and they stared at each other for the first time since they'd made love. Brooke thought she'd feel nervous or even guilty, but it wasn't that at all—she felt . . . excited and aroused at the thought of having a secret lover. They both slowly smiled but knew they were too out in the open to acknowledge any other emotion. She could still feel his hands on her, his mouth—

She was thankful her dad and brothers weren't around because surely her cheeks were blazing red, she felt so overheated.

“You should have come to see me last night,” he said in a low voice.

Brooke hadn't thought her blush could spread, but it did. “I went dancing with the girls and got home too late.”

“There's never a ‘too late' for us.”

“You'd think differently in the middle of a hardworking morning.”

“If you say so—boss.”

The gleam in his eyes gave her wicked thoughts. She shook them clear and held out the weekly newspaper. “Did you see the
Valentine Gazette
?”

“Nope. Something I should know about?”

“Your grandma's on the front page, along with mine.”

Frowning, he unfolded the paper so quickly that she had to grin. They looked at the picture of the three widows smiling sweetly into the camera.

“They appear so innocent,” Brooke said, shaking her head.

The article was entitled “Valentine Valley Preservation Fund Committee Backs Controversial New Business.”

She waited while he scanned the article. The reporter explained what Leather and Lace was, and how the owner would be coming to the next town-council meeting to explore getting a permit for the store. The article quoted Sylvester Galimi and his opposition on “moral grounds,” then the rest was devoted to the widows' knowledgeable discussion about the freedom to do business, the antiwomen bias of some people in the town, and the variety of lovely clothing items tourists as well as townspeople could buy from the new store.

“Antiwomen bias?” Adam repeated.

Brooke shrugged. “Could be. It's women who own and frequent the store, after all.”

“Says who? I might be a customer.”

“And I thought my underwear was pretty enough,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder. No one was around.

“I like to give presents to the women in my life. Grandma Palmer—”

Laughing, she hit him in the arm. “Let's not go there. I just wanted you to know in case there's some kind of backlash against your grandma in town. Not that you go into town . . .”

“Sure I do. I went to the grocery store, didn't I? I've even played pool at Tony's Tavern.”

“Not since you've been living in the bunkhouse.”

“Keeping an eye on me, Brooke?”

“How can I not? I can see your cabin right out my window.”

“How convenient. Maybe I'll buy some binoculars.”

“Hey, enough of that. In the retriever, soldier.”

He gave her a slow inspection, his eyes sexy and knowing. “Yes, boss.”

They worked as a unit in the stackyard until the hay bales were balanced two high in a long row on the bed of the truck, then they started down the road toward the first pasture to feed. Adam opened a thermos, and the smell of steaming coffee permeated the cab. He offered her a sip, then took one himself.

“You know how I mentioned my conversation with Steph Sweet?” Brooke asked. “She talked to me about this group of bad kids who are causing trouble—nothing too terrible, some graffiti, hanging out too late at night, that kind of stuff. Although one kid's brother just got out of jail doing a year for arson.”

“That could have been me,” Adam said, his voice impassive.

“I told her she should ask this boy's brother, Tyler, to join the teen group, that maybe he was bored and needed something to do.”

Adam arched a dubious brow at her but said nothing.

“All right, maybe I'm being optimistic here, but she seemed to dwell on this kid, like she felt sorry for him. And I couldn't help thinking—what makes some kids, like you, straighten out, and others not?”

He took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “In some ways, I think it was luck that I tangled with the right person. It was Coach McKee's car I stole, and you could have blown me away when he showed up at my hearing. I thought he was there to make sure they put me away in juvenile hall to teach me a lesson. Instead, he spoke up for me, said I was a good kid and deserved a second chance.”

Unspoken, but plain as day, was the knowledge that no one except his grandma had ever called him a good kid. She remembered in seventh grade when a teacher had assumed he'd been the one to throw food in the cafeteria, without a shred of proof. He'd just accepted the punishment without protest, as if he knew not to bother. Could that kind of thing be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Brooke's stomach tightened with sadness. When your own parents treated you like dirt, it was hard to think otherwise about yourself. “I bet your grandma was at the hearing, too.”

He gave a wry smile. “Front row. I was embarrassed to have her see me like that, knew she was trying not to cry, and for the first time realized that my actions affected someone else. She had an encouraging smile for me, and I knew I hadn't lost her love.” He looked away.

Brooke had to swallow hard as the love between grandmother and grandson warmed her. “So Coach McKee put you on the football team?”

“As a manager. You have to earn the right to play. No matter how sarcastic I was about my ‘job,' Coach McKee never took offense. He kept track of me just as he did the rest of his players. And by tryouts the next season, I was convinced I was just as good as any of his team.” He glanced at her mockingly. “I thought rather highly of myself.”

“No!” she said, looking at the road as she drove but putting a hand to her chest. “I'd never have thought that after spending some time in your bed.”

“I'd pinch your ass if you weren't driving.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “So go on with your story.”

“There isn't much more to tell. I started from the bottom and worked my way into a starting position. I took some ribbing, but after my parents, there isn't much that some kid could say that would affect me. I felt driven to prove Coach wasn't wrong about me. I'd never worked so hard. And there were rewards, too. Guys who'd never given me the time of day started listening to me. By senior year, I was one of the team captains, and being in charge, being respected, felt good. I'd never had that before.”

She listened to his quiet voice, and occasionally looked at him to see his expression unfocused, as if he saw the past.

“But then how did you go from that to the Marines? It's a big jump.”

“I thought about college, and maybe I could have gotten a football scholarship to a small school—I wasn't a Division I prospect. But I'd have had no money for books or travel or clothes, and frankly, going to school more just didn't appeal to me. You neither?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Nate went to college and learned everything about business and animal science. It seemed . . . repetitive to learn the same stuff.”

“That was the opinion of an eighteen-year-old girl. What do you think now?”

“I guess I still feel that way,” she said with a shrug. “His skills help him take care of his part of the ranch. My skills are out here, under the sky, with the animals. Do you wish you'd chosen differently?”

“No. Once Coach suggested the military—he was a vet himself—something seemed to click inside me. And Grandma Palmer was so proud I had a direction in my life at last.”

“You had more than a direction—you must have been driven. Your grandma told us you'd been promoted through the ranks to staff sergeant at a young age.”

He shrugged.

And then . . . nothing. It took everything in Brooke not to ask him specific questions when it was obvious he was keeping so much inside.

“So what you're saying,” she said at last, “is that this Tyler kid needs some good people in his life. I kind of told that to Steph, suggested she invite him to join her teen group. I'll let you know what happens.”

She didn't feel hurt that Adam didn't confide in her—they didn't have that kind of relationship. But . . . she was worried about him.

L
ate that afternoon, Adam thought he was going to the Widows' Boardinghouse to have dinner with his grandma. Instead, she met him at the door, leaning on her cane, her dress full of browns and yellows and oranges, because to her, it was still the Thanksgiving holiday.

On the porch, Adam did a double take. “Grandma?”

“Help me with my coat, dear boy,” she said, holding it up to him as he stepped inside the kitchen.

He took the coat. “I thought we were having dinner.”

“We are, but I'd like you to take me into town and make an evenin' of it. Won't that be nice?”

He helped her on with her bright red coat, and he tried not to smile as it clashed with her dress. “Um . . . okay. Do you have a place in mind? I didn't dress real fancy,” he said, looking down at his jeans, t-shirt, and fleece beneath his winter coat.

“You've got cowboy boots on, don't you?”

“Yeah,” he said, puzzled.

“That's fancy enough for Valentine Valley. You bring that truck of yours around to the stairs, and I can step right in.”

He did, and before he could get around to the passenger side, she already had the door open, which sort of surprised him. It was pretty heavy. As he held her elbow, she settled inside, then beamed up at him from beneath her immaculately combed blond wig. She'd put on some makeup, which made her seem more like herself. He had a quick thought that she hadn't lost any weight since he'd been home, considering how little he'd seen her eat. He'd have to pay more attention.

“Now get in, boy, we can't dawdle!”

He chuckled, determined to enjoy whatever she had planned.

And that wasn't dinner, at least not right away. After they crossed the bridge into town, with the sun behind the snow-tipped mountains and the last gray lighting the day, she kept telling him to turn left and right, until they'd zigzagged through practically every block.

“Grandma, surely we've seen every restaurant by now. Pick one.”

At last, when she'd directed him to turn onto Fourth, a block off Main Street, she said, “Stop here!”

He drove up to the curb and looked around. He didn't see a restaurant, but across the street was a nightclub called Wild Thing, and La Belle Femme, with women's clothes in the window. “Is this a good parking spot for a restaurant I don't see?”

“No. But do you see this buildin' here?”

He turned the other way and saw an old Victorian three-story home with a steeply sloped roof all around at the top, carved stone above each window, and especially large plate-glass windows on either side of the front door. A weathered
FOR SALE
sign had been driven into the snowbank near the road, as if the place had been for sale a long time.

“It used to be the funeral home until they found a buildin' more suitable to their needs,” Grandma mused.

He wondered what that could be—and then he remembered the last time he'd been in a funeral home, six months ago. His chest felt heavy with sadness, but for the first time it didn't seem so crippling, so permanent.

Suddenly, a light went on inside the building although they couldn't see in through the frosted glass.

“Right on time,” Grandma said with satisfaction. “Let's go in.”

He caught her arm. “So we're not going to dinner?”

“Oh, of course we are! I love the True Grits Diner.”

“You mean that place Sylvester Galimi owns? Is he going to be happy to see you, after that newspaper article?”

“Of course he will. Sylvester values money above all else, and we'll spend some there.”

Adam ducked down until he could see out her window. “Then who are we seeing here?”

“Why, the future proprietor of Leather and Lace, Miss Whitney Winslow. This is the buildin' she wants to buy.”

“You have an appointment, and you didn't bother to tell me.”

She looked at him over her glasses. “I thought you were accompanyin' me tonight, Adam. You never told me you had to approve our schedule first.”

“I don't like surprises, Grandma, but I'm happy to go wherever you'd like.”

“Not like surprises? Did your admirals tell you everythin' that was happenin' in your wars?”

“Admirals are in the Navy, Grandma.”

“You know what I mean. You're used to surprises, Adam, and I'm a woman who likes to offer them.”

He sighed. “And I love you for it.”

She squeezed his cheek as if he were four. “I know you do. Now let's go inside. You'll enjoy meetin' Whitney.”

Oh, would he? he thought suspiciously. She leaned on his arm and her cane as she walked up the stairs, one at a time, then rapped smartly on the door.

The woman who answered gave Grandma Palmer a friendly smile, then glanced with barely masked surprise at Adam.

“Hello, Mrs. Palmer, it's so wonderful to finally meet you in person.”

Whitney Winslow was stylishly dressed in slim black pants and a white-and-black-patterned silky-looking top. Adam suspected her clothes wouldn't look out of place in Aspen. Her black hair hung in various lengths to her shoulders, framing intelligent, gray eyes. If someone could radiate determination, it was Whitney, with her slim back as straight as a Southern finishing-school graduate.

Grandma Palmer beamed and took the other woman's hand. “Such a pleasure, Whitney, such a pleasure. Allow me to introduce my grandson, Adam Desantis.”

Adam shook her hand gently because his own palm was full of calluses, and hers felt like she'd never done anything more physical than typing at a computer.